Lesley yawned. ‘He sounds charming. I can’t wait to meet him.’
‘No, he’s much better now. He can just be a bit … gruff.’
‘I appreciate the warning.’ Lesley finished off her sentence with another jaw-cracking yawn. ‘Sleep now.’
She shifted a few times then settled, leaving Terry to think about his cousin. They had been close as kids, but drifted apart when Terry dropped out of university and went on a one-year trip around the world. It had been a few years since they’d last met, although they had exchanged a few desultory emails – the kind of three-liners you send to people you need to pretend you still care about but can’t actually be bothered keeping in touch with properly. Terry wasn’t sure what kind of welcome he would receive when he turned up with Lesley and a shot-up woman in tow. Knowing David, it probably wouldn’t be a terribly warm one.
10
Triple-word Quorn
Fanny placed a large casserole dish in the middle of the low dining table and whipped away the oven gloves with a flourish.
‘Dinner is served,’ she proclaimed.
When the round of applause she seemed to be expecting did not materialize, she began dishing out gloopy red stew. She took special care to plop the mixture forcefully into David’s bowl, sending piping hot sauce splattering across the tablecloth. David remained unscathed. Nonetheless, he looked ill at ease sitting cross-legged at the table: his voluminous buttocks were barely supported by a dainty purple cushion and his knees butted up against the underside of the table.
He eyed his portion suspiciously. ‘What is it this time?’
‘Something I went to great trouble to cook,’ Fanny answered tartly.
‘That’s code for root vegetable stew with couscous,’ Geldof said.
David looked as if he was about to say something, but his wife was glaring daggers at him. He simply sniffed.
‘Thank you, Fanny,’ Mary said. ‘This looks delicious.’
‘It’s no problem,’ Fanny replied, her clipped tone making it clear she considered herself an enormous martyr for going to the trouble of cooking, even though she had repeatedly turned down Mary’s offers of help in the kitchen.
Fanny set to eating and, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, the others followed suit. From the downturned lips and absence of conversation around the table – the only sound was the clink of spoons and slurping from the twins – it was clear Fanny was not the only one unhappy with the new living arrangements, which had been in force for three days.
The day after the power died, the Peterses had been disturbed by a frantic hammering upon the front gate. Geldof, who was sitting in the living room trying to get his Rubik’s Cube solution time below forty seconds, opened the gate to the entire Alexander family. From the way they crowded forward the instant the gate was open, it was clear something was amiss. As he ushered them in, a low growl emanated from the other side of the fence.
It turned out the twins had nipped into the back garden to smoke the last of their illicit cigarette stash. There they encountered their neighbour’s Alsatian, now a growling, salivating monster. The twins scarpered back inside, thoughtlessly leaving the kitchen door open for the dog to follow. The family had to bail out of the front and high-tail it next door. Fanny had not been best pleased, but Geldof knew her conscience would not have allowed her to abandon people in need of help.
And so the seven of them were crammed into the house, too afraid to venture outside. Occasionally they heard snuffling, grunting and barking, gunfire, and what might have been distant screams. For the first time in his life, Geldof was grateful for the fence. Only James ventured out to pick vegetables, returning cross-eyed and with the sweet scent of smoke soaked into his clothes.
The worst thing for Geldof was living in close proximity to the twins. They weren’t bullying him, although the camaraderie he had thought they were enjoying after the field turned out to be a figment of his imagination. The house was simply too small for the twins to engage in any serious bullying without getting caught. Their presence still carried menace though, and without PSPs and other gadgets to hold their attention, they were becoming restless and therefore more likely to seek entertainment in Chinese burns and pile-ons without thought for the consequences.
But there were benefits. Mary and David had moved into his room, displacing him to the camp bed in the tiny spare room and forcing his parents to quit their boisterous lovemaking. Then there was the titillation of Mary sleeping in his bed, although his excitement had been tempered when he crept in to sniff the sheets only to inhale one of David’s pubic hairs, prompting a five-minute coughing fit. Alas, Mary didn’t float around in the flimsy nightgown he had always imagined, as she had been forced to flee without clothes and had to borrow a shapeless robe from Fanny. The robe was at least relatively short and had a tendency to flap open.
While Mary’s presence helped Geldof cope, the adults were not faring so well. James had obsessively, and fruitlessly, called his dealer until he dashed his phone against the wall and sat with his head in his hands for an hour. Now he was facing the horror of having to ration his weed. Geldof figured he was down to three joints a day, which meant he could actually string a sentence together.
Fanny and David were suffering their own withdrawal symptoms. Unable to indulge in her pastimes of strolling around the house naked and attempting to reduce James’s penis to a red raw nubbin through constant humping, Fanny ground her teeth and pulled at the neckline of her top as if it were choking her. David, who was going cold turkey from meat, was in much worse shape.
Geldof watched him as they ate. Mary was making ostentatious sounds of delight while her husband poked at a parsnip. The bags under his eyes were growing with each passing hour and he appeared simultaneously listless and edgy, a combination that left his cheek twitching constantly as he lay idle on the sofa all day. Mary was looking exhausted from the strain of having to constantly hover at his side, delivering elbow digs and nudges of the foot when it seemed he was about to be ungracious about the Peterses’ hospitality.
The lack of contact with the outside world compounded the stress. No power meant no TV, no internet and, after a few days, no mobile phones. Geldof, like many kids of his generation, had grown up surgically attached to his mobile, and he found his itchy thumbs twitching regularly, ghost-texting to his maths geek friends. The landlines had also gone down, removing even the old-fashioned way of keeping in touch. James had a battery-powered radio, but all they got in English was the emergency message – they found plenty of crackly channels on Long Wave in European languages none of them could understand.
And so they sat around the table in silence, chewing listlessly and trying not to make eye contact. Had they been close friends, being stuck together would have been bearable, maybe even fun. So far, each evening had ended with them sitting in uncomfortable silence amid flickering candlelight. That evening, though, as they scraped up the last few grains of couscous, Geldof decided drastic action was required to prevent him from going insane.
‘Let’s play Scrabble,’ he suggested.
At first, the game went well. Everybody perked up and the atmosphere lightened perceptibly. But Geldof had forgotten Scrabble lent itself to lively discussion. Among friends, such disputes were good-natured debates about whether ‘bantlebox’ was really a tiny insect that ate the holes out of Polo mints or whether it had been invented by a cheating sod hoping to use their letter X on a triple-word square. With two opponents not normally on the best of terms and further wound up by an animal apocalypse, they were a recipe for disaster.
The trouble began when David started laying down only meat-related words. Nobody paid much attention when he slapped down ‘beef’; after all, he only scored seven points for it. When his next word was ‘kebab’, Fanny twigged. She spelled out ‘carrot’ in response. She raised an eyebrow at David, like a chess Grand Master who has just backed her fiercest opponent into a corner with a cunning move. David went with ‘lamb’ next and
Fanny countered with ‘nuts’. They then each missed several turns, no doubt reluctant to put down a word that did not aggravate the other. David eventually managed to squeeze out ‘salami’. His score was poor again, but he grunted with satisfaction as his last letter slid into place. Fanny threw down ‘leek’ in response, banging the tiles down so hard the other pieces shook.
For the next ten minutes, the warring duo could not produce any more meat- or vegetable-related words. Geldof played ‘integer’, which drew a nod of approval from Mary, and emptied the last few tiles out of the bag. With no more letters left, and Fanny and David apparently out of ideas, he relaxed.
Just as he thought disaster had been averted, Fanny let loose a hoot and lunged across the board to link up with the R Geldof had just set down.
‘Quorn!’ she declared. ‘On a triple word. That’s forty-two points.’
David stared incredulously at her. ‘You can’t put down “Quorn”.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a product. It’s like trying to put “Mars Bar”.’
‘Nonsense,’ Fanny said. ‘Quorn is a mycoprotein. Not that you would know.’
‘I know what Quorn is. Tastes like sandpaper, looks like solidified vomit.’
‘Don’t talk about Quorn like that. It’s nutritious and healthy and feeds people without the need to murder animals.’
‘I don’t care how many hippies and women that don’t shave their armpits eat it. You can’t bloody well use it. It’s spelled with a capital letter.’
Fanny narrowed her eyes. ‘So you have a problem with hairy armpits?’
What Fanny did next surprised even Geldof, who had under estimated how much strain the lack of sex had put her under. She ripped off her top, exposing her braless chest and hirsute armpits, and leapt across the table, sending the tiles flying. Shock, and Fanny’s strong left arm, held David motionless as his face was forced into her armpit.
‘How about that then?’ Fanny asked. ‘Like that, do you?’
David tried to squirm away, but either Fanny’s grip was iron tight or her armpit fluff had bonded with David’s copious nose hair like Velcro. Geldof, Mary and James recovered from their shock and surrounded the combatants while the twins guffawed in the corner. James had to prise Fanny’s fingers apart to break her headlock, allowing Mary to slide David’s head free. The enemies stared at each other across the ruined Scrabble board, panting. A letter X that had attached itself to Fanny’s breast dropped off.
Before anybody could say anything, a car roared up outside and stopped in a squeal of brakes. A wild chorus of barking filled the gap left by the engine as it revved down.
Thank you, God, Geldof thought, and dashed upstairs to look out of the window and see what all the fuss was about.
Lesley was already half-awake, gazing through heavy-lidded eyes at a poster exhorting people to take the stairs instead of the lift – the subtext of which she took to be: ‘Stop annoying busy doctors with your complaints, you fat, lazy bastards’ – when Terry stirred and walked stiff-legged into the hallway. Soon after, noisy peeing echoed around the room. The unrestrained gurgle brought home just how quiet it was. The wall clock said it was almost midday, yet ever since Lesley had woken up she had heard not a peep from outside.
‘Thanks for the alarm,’ she said when Terry returned. ‘Reminded me of a clock I used to have: you could set it to wake you up with birdsong. Or a babbling brook.’
One of Terry’s cheeks was bright red from being pressed against the floor all night. The other quickly changed to the same colour. ‘Sorry. I, er, left the door open so I could hear if anything happened.’
‘Yeah right, you did it so you could save me,’ Lesley replied, standing up and stretching. ‘You live alone and you leave the door open when you pee, it’s no big deal. I do the same.’
‘You pee standing up too? Your aim must be pretty good.’
Lesley ignored the wisecrack and peered at the professor, who was lying with her head thrown back, stretching the papery skin on her neck. ‘Think she’s OK?’
‘Well, she’s no spring chicken. I don’t rate her chances.’
‘Do you think we should wake her and get going?’
‘No, let her sleep. I think she needs it.’ Terry yawned hugely. ‘And so do I. Do you mind if I steal the chair? I didn’t get much shut-eye on the floor.’
‘It’s all yours.’
Terry flopped into the chair, and was asleep within a few minutes.
Lesley hadn’t slept well either, regularly starting awake to stare at the door or window, searching for the source of some imagined sound she had heard in her sleep. She lay down on the floor, but between her growling stomach and churning mind found it impossible to drift off. She lit one of Constance’s cigarettes and looked at Terry, who was curled up in a ball with his pert little behind sticking out of the robe. While in normal circumstances she might have found herself fighting an urge to creep over and indulge her love of nice behinds by playing the bum bongos, she was too busy brooding over her failure.
During her captivity, Brown hadn’t returned after the initial interrogation. Either he had been too busy dealing with the unfolding chaos or had figured out Lesley was too thick to have created a backup. Not that it mattered. The facility, and all of her proof, was destroyed and the professor was probably going to die. Lesley had nothing. Sure, Terry could tell his story and she could tell hers. But it would be their word against the government’s. That contest never worked in favour of the little guy.
Not for the first time, she found herself glad her father lived in Kenya. Even imagining how he would react if he found out she had let the family down with such shoddy journalism made her cringe. The way she saw it, she had three options to avoid incurring Charles McBrien’s wrath. The first was to resurrect the story, which would require energy, verve and determination. She was sorely lacking in all of those qualities. The next was to let herself be ripped apart by infected animals, or let Brown finish her off. That seemed a little extreme. The final option was simply to escape with her life and tell nobody about her failure.
We have a winner, she thought, chucked the spent cigarette out into the corridor, and went back to staring morosely at Terry’s bum.
She woke up to find Terry crouched over her, shaking her shoulder.
‘Christ, did I fall asleep? What time is it?’
‘Four. Time to go. Constance is conscious.’
Constance looked about as alert as Keith Richards after a night on the tiles with Pete Doherty, swaying on the edge of the table with glassy eyes. Nonetheless, Lesley patted the pocket of her suit to make sure the cigarettes she had nicked weren’t on show.
Terry picked Constance up and carried her to the front of the surgery. Lesley followed, stepping over the body of the dog, which lay limp and bloody like a discarded mop head against the wall. She opened the door and glanced out into the street. Nothing moved.
‘You ready?’ Terry asked.
‘Yes. But there’s one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I drive, you navigate. When you press the pedals, your robe rides up just a little too high for modesty.’
Terry let Lesley take the keys without a word.
They set off through the deserted streets. Lesley found herself glancing nervously at every corner and doorway, expecting a gun-toting Brown, a sex-crazed bull, or a gun-toting Brown riding a sex-crazed bull, to charge the car and slaughter them all. To stop her mind conjuring up such ridiculous yet still terrifying images, she decided to interrogate Terry.
‘So why did you become an abattoir worker?’ she asked.
Terry, who was determinedly holding down the edge of his robe, kept looking out of the side window. ‘No real reason.’
‘Come on, just tell me. I’m nosy.’
Terry turned to look at her, his face solemn. ‘You know I told you my parents died?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t tell you how they died.’
‘Go on,’ Lesley said.
‘They were dairy farmers. We had a great life out in the country. My dad would take me out on the tractor every morning. That’s how I remember my mum: her waving from the doorway, me sitting up on the dashboard waving back.’
Once again, Terry stopped and stared off into the middle distance. ‘One day, my dad was out milking. Nobody knows what happened: maybe something spooked the cows; maybe he pulled too hard on a nipple; maybe it was even deliberate. All we know is that he got crushed to death between two cows.’
Lesley took one hand off the wheel to lay it on Terry’s arm. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’
He lowered his head and fiddled with the edge of the robe. ‘My mum found him, lying in a pool of blood and milk. The shock gave her a heart attack. Killed her on the spot. I found them both, dead on the floor of the barn. I was six.’
‘That’s terrible.’ Lesley squeezed his arm and waited for Terry to continue. He said nothing, his face completely still.
Even though she suspected she shouldn’t push further, Lesley couldn’t help herself. ‘What’s that got to do with the abattoir?’
Terry sighed deeply. ‘When I found their bodies, the cows had fled the scene of the crime. But I swore I would avenge my parents’ deaths. I took a job in an abattoir, hoping one day to meet the cow that killed my parents and claim my vengeance.’
Lesley dug her nails into his forearm.
‘You are a lying bumhole!’ she shouted.
Terry erupted into laughter, continuing even when Lesley gripped still harder. She tried to keep a straight face, but couldn’t.
‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist,’ Terry said when he had got himself under control.
‘Did you even live in the countryside?’
‘There was a bit of old yellow grass near the bins outside our tenement, if that counts.’
Apocalypse Cow Page 13
